Page 100

Unlike for most people, for Armand Gamache neither God nor the Devil was abstract. He didn’t just believe in them. He knew them. Had met both. Had shaken hands with them. He had the scars to prove it.

Evil is unspectacular, and always human,

And shares our bed and eats at our own table,

And we are introduced to Goodness every day.

Even in drawing rooms, among a crowd of faults.

He looked around the table and smiled. If ever there was a crowd of faults …

“Any random calamity was blamed on witches,” said Reine-Marie. “Accidents, illnesses, drought, torrential rain, blizzards. If a pig ran away, or a child got sick, or an early frost killed the crops, it was the work of witches.”

“I read where a mosquito bite was thought to be a teat for the Devil to suckle,” said Ruth. “You can imagine the hysteria.”

“So what happened to Anne Lamarque?” Armand asked, picking Amelia’s napkin off the floor and handing it to her. “Was she burned?”

Amelia looked at her napkin, then let it drop again, watching as though gravity were magic.

“Burned?” said Ruth. “No.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Jean-Guy.

“What they did to her was worse.”

“Worse?” he said. “What could be worse?”

“Back in the 1600s, in New France? What’s worse is being banished. She was sent out of Montréal, rowed across the river, and left on the far shore for the demons to claim. Burning would be too quick.”

“She had to be damned before she died,” said Reine-Marie. “All the so-called witches were expelled, sent into the forests to die. Slowly.”

They tried to imagine what that would be like. Standing on the banks, Anne would have watched the boatman return to Montréal, the cesspool that passed for civilization. But however harsh, it was home.

Turning around, she’d face her future. The forest. Infested with terrifying creatures.

If the bears didn’t kill her, the demons certainly would.

It would be slow, and it would be agonizing, and when it was finally over, she’d be in Hell. For eternity.

“She wasn’t the only one,” said Ruth. “Most were never heard from again. They were swallowed up by the forest.”

“Most but not all?” Armand said, handing Amelia the napkin. Again. And looking into her eyes.

“Anne apparently survived into ripe old age,” said Ruth.

“How?” asked Jean-Guy.

“She traveled south until she came to a valley with a meadow and a river of spring water. There she stopped. Two other women, also banished as witches, found their way to her. They built homes. Planted crops. With the help of the medicinal recipes in the grimoire, they survived. Formed a small community. Eventually they each planted a tree in a clearing, as a sign for others. There was a safe place.” She looked at Reine-Marie and smiled. “For witches.”

“Here?” said Jean-Guy. “Are you saying Anne Lamarque founded Three Pines?”

“Who knows?” said Ruth. “Believe whatever you want.”

After the dessert of ice cream with salted caramel sauce, Armand went into his study and picked up the grimoire, now encased in plastic, noting again the charred leather cover.

He was sorely tempted to take the book into the living room, sit by the hearth, and read it. But he had to get it into the locker. As he left with the book under his arm, he looked back and saw Reine-Marie and Ruth watching.

He wondered if Anne was standing with them, the third woman. Watching over them. He then turned and watched Amelia make her way back to the B&B.